Morituri Te Salutamus. We who are about to die salute you. (Can you hear me out there, Spartacus?)

Roman-themed novelty print dress. Early 60s most likely, cotton, printed with coins, shields, sandals and centurion's helmets. I can't really make out the Latin, except "Augustus". I can only hope that it says somewhere: Vendi, Vidi, Vici.



I have long desired a Roman frock. I've even written about it somewhere on this blog. I used to know some Latin. Actually, I only knew the parts of Ceasar's Gallic Wars that I thought would be on the final exam. And yes, it ended up being that hideous passage about building a bridge that I ended up translating. I'd love to find a dress with that printed on it. Though I sure couldn't translate it now. But I do remember the doggerel that a previous student has etched into the textbook: Latin is a dead language/as dead as it can be./It killed the ancient Romans,/and now it's killing me.

All my dreams come true eventually. Though never quite as I had hoped. I've performed in many of the places I've always wanted to, it's just that my roles were much smaller than I'd hoped. (Not to mention the tepid reviews, those are almost worse than the bad ones.) The desired event (or object) eventually appears, but always with a sardonic twist. My great lost love, The Boy From Ipanema, did contact me nearly a decade after his ill-timed disappearance. But rather than offering me his heart and bemoaning the years we'd spent apart, he was proposing to act as my attorney in an intellectual property suit he'd read about in the paper. See what I mean: close, but no cigar. (Perhaps I should now refer to my lost Brazilian as "The Ambulance Chaser", nu?)

And so, the Roman dress has been found, but it's too small for me. Way too small, B32, W24. But you, little slip of a thing, get out there and carpe diem.